Fake
by Secretly Immortal
Summary: One shot. AU. AH. You're so fake. Everything about you. Cheap. Plastic. But you'll never change.


_Fake._

You're so fake. Look at you; nothing about you is a real appeal. You disgust me, you disappoint me, you nauseate me. You aren't nothing, you're _less_ than nothing.

_You're fake._

That sneer you're aiming at me is the only real thing about you. And the only thing it proves to be true is that you're not only fake, but you're in denial. You can't hide the brown roots starting to peek out at the crown of your head – maybe go bottle blonde yourself again, huh Barbie?

_Plastic._

Every part of you is a sham. Your makeup is cheap. Your name brands are knock-offs. Your smiles are forced; fragile as glass and just as see-through. You spend more money than you'd care to admit on teeth whitener. And why, when your family doesn't give a shit enough to support you, would you bother spending so much on that disgusting teeth-bleach crap? Because you're so fucking _fake._

_Façade. _

You pretend that you're the best, but that's only just for show. A mask you wear, not to hide your identity, but to hide how afraid you are that people will one day realize how superficial you are, how _fake._ You act like you don't care, like you're superior, like you're naturally beautiful, but you're fake. So fake.

_And you hate yourself for it, don't you?_

Of course you do. The only thing not fake about you are those sneers and snarls, those ugly frowns that paint you vividly in the colors of your true nature. This macabre mess of mommy issues, daddy issues, a heart of black ice – if one even exists for your kind – and-

"Rosalie!" And here they come. Your lackeys. Those fools that look up to you. They're fake too, but not to the extent of your prowess. You can mask that sneer for a smile. It reflects back in your glass twin just as easily. But it's so fake. And you know it. And that quells it a bit. Mona Lisa would be proud of that face – if she were as fake as you, at least – and that barely-there smile.

"What?" It doesn't come out as softly as it should. Your tone is just another concoction, you made it with the thought that keeping people at arm's length with an icy attitude might make it harder to see the plasticity of your image. And it works. They're all imbeciles, anyway – so you've convinced yourself – so what's wrong with being fake friends with them? They're fake friends with you. It's all fair.

"Your hair and makeup look good, and like, class is _starting_," The tone she uses is perky. Her voice is high pitched. That's the realest thing about this situation – that and your sense of hatred for her. Her voice grates on your nerves. You grind your teeth, red-painted lips draw back from the phony-whites in semblance of a smile. She's too dull to notice you're glaring. Or maybe her fake is getting good, and she just pretends to be oblivious.

She doesn't care about class, and you both know it. What she cares about it prattling on about nothing to that dunderhead of a jock she so adores. For all your masks and the fabricated image you strive to make real, you care about your studies. Because they'll get you out of here, away from these people – and maybe, just maybe, they'll get you away from all of the fake shit you associate yourself with. All the fake shit you make yourself up with. All the fake shit that is your everything.

_You're so fake, is your CARE even real, or are you just that good?_

* * *

If there's one thing you hate – more than yourself – it's _her_, isn't it? But, oh wait, you're too fake to admit to that. Too fake to admit that she's the only thing in this world, other than your ugly emotions, that's real to you. The only thing you care about more than your self-image. The only thing that isn't affected by how fake you are. She knows your situation – because you've told her about it, to prove a point that wasn't worth it – and she can see through you as easily as you can. And in all actuality, she sees more than you. And you hate her. Because you care for her.

How dare she see you for the truth behind your pretty lies!? And that knowing way that she smiles at you, even when you glare… It's like she can see your soul; that filthy thing. It's like she can see the truths of you, even those she does not rightly know. She's got a name for you, this nickname; to everyone she's ever around, they know you as the name.

_Amber Sweet._

You don't get it. You aren't sure what it's supposed to mean. You aren't even sure where it's from or if it's just as fabricated as your appearance. But you get the sense that she calls you that, specifically, because it's a dig at you. On your self. About how fake you are. She never says why she calls you that – and you've never asked or bothered to see if you could search for the meaning – but you can tell. Because she flashes that damned smile whenever she says it. Everyone you ever see her lounging around with calls you that as well, and some laugh, but others say it with such sincerity that you know they don't realize what it's about. And you don't either. But you do. It's an unspoken understanding between you and she.

And she's smiling at you now, as she greets you. You're scowling. But she only smiles as you brush past her. She grabs your arm as you pass, and even though you flinch, even with the intent to wrench your arm away and out from her grip, she holds fast. That smile you hate is so brilliant, and maybe that's why you hate it. Her teeth are white on their own, they sparkle and shine and you want to punch her in the mouth just as much as you want to be devoured by that mouth.

"Looking rough, Sweet," It's all she says, all she needs to say. She'll say it to your face at least once a day – if not _five_ times before the night can completely descend – that you're fake. She'll be blunt, she'll be subtle, she'll use only body language, but she always says it somehow. And that's why you hate her. She's got piercings to make airport security flip their lid. Tattoos she's so damn proud of – and you'd _never_ do that, mark your skin with ink or metal; yet she wears it better than most. Better than _all._ She's imperfect, real. And she knows you aren't, knows how your perfections are just barely more than a sad endeavor. Knows you're fake.

And you hate her for it. She's the bane of your existence, you want to rip out that damned brow barbell, because the way she cocks her brow like that is so condescending. You want to punch out those perfect teeth and flay those beautiful pieces of art from her body. But instead you glare, tilt your head up and look down your nose at her. As if you were superior. And you're so far from it, she only smiles wider. Her head bobs in a nod, for no reason other than her own – and you'll never know her well enough to get it – and she releases you. You stalk away, in a huff, running a hand through your bottle-blonde hair. And you hate her. You hate yourself, but also her; she knows too much.

She knows you're an ugly crier. She knows you used to cut yourself. She knows your mother was a drinker and daddy did bad things to you. She knows you've been on your own for the past two years. She knows you put up that fake front because you're so fucked up on the inside. And she knows how to make you cum harder than anyone ever could, ever can. She knows every sweet spot. She knows how to drive you to heaven while wreaking hell on your body. She knows you hate her.

And she doesn't care.

On the other hand, you know little of her. Other than the obvious facts. The metal and ink. She likes obscure references. She's probably too old for you – she's almost nine years your senior, which makes this thing between you weird (right?). She smokes and drinks, but is some odd sort of health fanatic on top of that – which is definitely weird, considering the smoking and drinking. And she likes to eat your pussy. A lot. In fact, you're most certain she prefers you. Because you've seen other girls hang around her, hang off of her – they all look like a bunch of whores, and you never see them around after the initial sighting (which pleases you more than you'd ever admit) – but she perks up for you. With them she offers up your specialty.

Fake smile, with the dead eyes and insincere tone to boot.

With you, she offers the grin. That smile. The one you hate. The one that makes you flush in two parts – one being anger and the other something caught between affection and chagrin. The one that flashes in the dark from between your legs, after you've moaned and screamed and panted for her. With you she offers inflection – usually facetiously inclined – and something that's almost affection. It's like a friendship, but it most certainly is not. And that, along with the facts, sums up your whole wealth of knowledge concerning her. Which… is hardly more than basic things.

And you care.

It's another reason why you hate her. You're fake, superficial, vain. You are supposed to be concerned ONLY with yourself; and while you are for the most part, when she steps into the picture, things get… complicated. You realized how fake you were, only when she shoved it in your face. And because you hate her for that, you also have to hate yourself for being like this. _BUT_, you had plenty good reason to be fake – you've had a tough lot of luck and on top of the fake shit and school shit, you've got a job so you can live on your own – and who was she to say anything to you?! She didn't know you, yet the second time you met she roped you into a conversation that once again came back to slap you in the face; and she pegged you, perfectly. It was like she could read minds, see the future and past, had known you your whole life while you'd sat by blissfully oblivious to her presence. It'd scared you, so you'd hated her for it.

You wouldn't admit how intrigued she had you.

And since then, everything had spiraled out of control. You'd start arguments with her whenever you saw her, and she only smiled when she would answer; cool-headed, in control, tearing down every bit of plastic you'd constructed your fraudulent image with. She'd call you that damned name. She'd tell you how beautiful you are. She'd tell you how fake you are. She'd tell you what you _needed_ to hear. She'd tell you what you hated to hear. And one day you realized that you hated her, you hated her ever so much – but you also felt such a soothing warmth to think of her. Flutters in the stomach, heart in the throat, flushed cheeks – you realized it wasn't hate you were harboring more often than not, but affection. And it was strange to realize it not before sex, or during, but in a dry period.

Because you'd hated her before, you hated how she could charm the pants off of you. You hated how good she made you feel – until one day you didn't. But now you hate the thought of her. You hate the fact that she makes you feel weak – or feel at all, for that matter. You hate the fact that she makes you see your true self every time you look into a mirror. You hate how fake you are, while she's so perfectly imperfect; so real. You hate that she'll wait up for you on work nights – even though she never says that was her purpose, you know it was, _IS_ – because it makes you feel good. And you aren't. You are so far from good. You're sullied, broken, so fake. Barbie's head was pulled off, and her limbs were ripped from their sockets; so someone took tape and glue and put her back together – and that's you. And for all the reasons you hate her, there's one that stands above the rest…

You hate her, most of all you hate her because she's the glue that keeps you together.

* * *

You search your purse for your keys, huffing and puffing. You're angry, because she'd told you how "rough" you look, but had said nothing else. No teasing remarks. Nothing. She's better than that, and you're irritated with yourself for being irritated with her. Because despite what you know, you're still trying to convince yourself that you don't care. For her, about her, about anything but yourself. You mutter under your breath then, a low growl that cuts short as you feel a presence at your back. You freeze up, but relax almost immediately – somehow, you know without knowing who will be there. You fight off a small smile, replace it with a frown. You can sense the smile that decorates her face. You can feel the arms that wrap around your waist and the warmth at your back culminating into a mass of heat as her body presses into yours.

"You _might_ have dropped this," The tone is teasing, light. You relax into her, but still manage to make it seem stiff. She chuckles, her breath rushes over the shell of your ear. You flush, but scowl as her hands shift and one holds up your key in front of your face. The other is still wrapped around your waist, but more tightly. Because she knows that you know she stole it from you when she stopped you hardly five minutes ago.

"'Might'," You snarl the word, snatching the key and quickly opening the door. You'd love to rid yourself of her, and all it would take is telling her to fuck off and leave you be. And yet, you keep your tongue – and your scowl – allowing her to cling to you as you enter your apartment. The warmth disappears, you can hear that the door closes, and then it's back again. You wished you could hate her warmth, but it's one of the things about her you simply cannot hate. Because that black ice heart of yours defrosts just a bit when she wraps her arms around you. You'll never tell her. But somehow, you are certain that she already knows that.

"Dye your hair," Her arms aren't wrapped around you anymore, but her hands are planted firmly on your hips as you kick off your shoes. They don't go far, hitting a wall and bouncing off, clattering to the floor. Heels are a pain, but you're just fake enough to suffer through it, because your ass just would not look as good without. She finds them sexy, but you assure yourself you absolutely DON'T wear them for her.

"Hmm?" You don't really pay attention to her – okay, yes you do, but you'd rather she thought you didn't – or the almost-demand she made of you. You're more concerned for other things, like going to prepare yourself a cup of green tea. You've heard it's good for metabolism – or something of that sort – and you're sure it'll keep you looking trim. And that's certainly a must for you. Barbie's waist is thin, yours should be too.

"Brown. You should dye your hair brown," You almost reprimand her, almost sneer at her that you are _sooo_ much better looking as the beautiful blonde you pretend to be. "You can say it's the new blonde. Then you wouldn't have to do your roots." The look you give her brings about that _fucking_ smile. It's this look of utter disdain, a look that screams of her idiocy at the notion of you as a brunette. And sure, the carpet would match the drapes, but… you look _SO_ much better as a blonde. And looking good is really all that matters. Even if you hate yourself for it. It's much too late to back out of this life now. You started down this road, and you'll damn finish the journey.

Or start a new one. And that's the dilemma. College is right around the corner. And you've got plans to leave this fucking corner of hell and high waters. Leave _her._ So you only roll her eyes at her, she chuckles, and you walk briskly for the kitchen, hoping to break contact with her. But somehow she keeps pace with you, and one of her hands is still cradling the dip of your lower back, warmth seeping throughout your body at just that simple touch. You don't know how you'll manage without her warmth, even though you're quite certain you can. You did for years before now. You really hate that part of you that cries out and dies out on the inside at the thought of going even a week without feeling that delectable heat of her touch.

And you're so wrapped up in your worries and thoughts and self-loathing that you don't notice her silence. She'd been trying to talk, but you were busy, with yourself. Like always. _So selfish, why would she even care that you left?_ There's a hand on your arm, and then you're being forcefully pulled around to face her. Your lower back hits the counter, and you suddenly find yourself trapped between her arms. And you love that you're taller than her. You hate that she still somehow seems to tower over you. Her look is somber, something in her eyes accuses you. Of what, you've no clue; but you're worthless, fake, you probably did something wrong. Not that you'll admit to that, you won't. So you offer up a snarl, and glare.

"What?" Your tone is sharper than razors, but she doesn't blink. Her eyes narrow, she leans closer to you – for a moment, you feel her searching your soul with her eyes, you feel bare, you feel heat rise into your cheeks – but she doesn't kiss you, like you thought she might. Like some part of you was really hoping she would. She just stares, and there's a sadness in her eyes, some spark like her suspicions have been proven true.

"You're quiet," she tells you simply, and you feel that snarl stretching the skin of your face further.

"You're annoying," You hiss it out, glare hotter than ever. She doesn't smile, like you think she might. Well, she does, but it isn't _that_ smile. It's smaller, something about it just… isn't right.

"What's up, Sweet?" The name usually makes you twitch, but for some reason, it doesn't. Not now. You swallow, avert your eyes. You mutter something translatable as 'Nothing' or maybe 'Fuck off' and she says nothing for a long moment. She knows. She isn't sure what she knows, but you are certain that she knows you aren't being truthful. You almost expect her to question you, and you're almost surprised that she doesn't. But you aren't, because then she _does _kiss you. And you've been waiting for that. You hate yourself, that you can't deny her. You should, logically, after everything that's gone on in your past, you should hate this sort of thing. But there's something in the way her lips feel against yours, there's something in the way she presses into you and you just… _fit._

She's the realest part of you. And when you don't hate that, you swear you could love it. When she kisses you, it's like you're… suddenly perfect. That image you've constructed, it becomes real in those moments. When her hands move, when they slide under your shirt to skim calloused fingers – and really, what must she have _done_ to get such rough hands!? – along the surface of your skin, you feel whole. You feel her. And she feels… She feels. And it's such a nice thing to feel anything other than hate, disgust, disdain. She makes you feel good, even though you aren't. She makes you _feel._ You gasp as her hands rise higher still, slip up under the confines of your bra. And whatever she must have done for years – maybe she played some instrument? Maybe manual labor? – to get those rough hands of hers, they feel so fucking good on your breasts.

You've never asked much about her past, always insisted you didn't care about her. But you do. Still, you can only guess that she _must_ have played something, because the way she makes your body sing is ungodly. That sort of talent had to come with a background, and maybe one day you'll check about that, maybe one day you'll ask. But that isn't now, isn't today. Today is a day to give in to her advances. Today is a day to allow her to pick you up and set you on the counter top. It's a day to let her strip you from the waist up and lavish your breasts, neck, lips with attention.

She's everywhere at once, it seems. And you want to hate that she isn't where you burn the hottest, but you love her lips wrapping around one nipple while those too-skilled fingers of hers work on the other. One hand is pressed against your bare lower back, sending those shots of molten heat rushing through your body for no and every reason – those rough fingers, they feel _so_ good! – and you've got your own hands buried in her hair. It isn't terribly long, just past her chin, but it's silky. Soft. It's much better than your hair, and you are almost jealous of it – actually, you _are_ – but it isn't too hard to ignore the urge to envy when her lips are leaving your breasts and she's kissing you again. It's frantic for no tangible reason, passionate. Hot, wet. Like you are, right now. But you can't even care that her hands are only on your hips, griping tight enough that you'll probably have bruises. Spots of black are dancing in your eyes when she pulls back.

You're panting, but so is she. And there's this look in her eyes. It's wild. Almost panicked. And something about it is knowing. She knows you too well. You know that look too well. And _you_ feel panicked, because you could swear sometimes she just looks at you like that and it's just… You know what she's going to say – it's odd that you should be the one knowing something of her, for once – but then, she just… she says nothing. She gives you that small, sad smile. Kisses you – it's chaste this time – and gets back to business.

* * *

She's lying behind you, her body somehow manages to curl around yours despite being slighter. One arm is wrapped around your waist. You're tired, worn out, sore – but sleep does not come easily. It doesn't come at all. Because where you're sated, she isn't. And you never initiated this thing you two have, she did. You always just let it happen. You encourage, perhaps. But at the end of the day, you're fake in all factors of life. You aren't even really a lesbian. Because as much as you'd like to reciprocate… you can't. She's never asked you to, never expected it of you. But you never expected for things to be like… _this._

You never expected to be so comfortable with another woman. Never expected to feel strangely attracted to one. Never expected to get fucked by one. Never expected to crave fucking her in return. And that's your dilemma now. You're leaving her soon. You want her. You want to taste and touch her, you want to take her with you. But you can't, won't. Because she loves you – you could see it earlier, can still see it in your mind's eye because that look on her face from before is playing on loop, over and over in your head – and you're… fake. You're Amber Sweet, whatever that means. And you aren't gay. You're just out for your own pleasure. You hate yourself for it too. God, you fucking hate yourself. You hate her for sneaking under your guard, getting under your skin. But you hate yourself most of all.

Because you'll never love her. She's the realest thing about you, but at the end of the day, this really is too good to be true. So you'll let silent tears trek down your cheeks, and you'll hate every second of it. You'll let your heart ache and break for the woman you can never love. And you'll hate every second of it.

_You're so fake._

And you can't help hating yourself for that.

* * *

**Wow… where did THAT come from, right?! Seriously, I have no clue. I'm in a good mood, but I just decided to write something with an unhappy ending. And in second person, apparently. This is a fucked-up relationship between Rosalie and Bella, YAAAAY! I don't give a fuck if you review, I'm just glad I managed to finish this shit. Go me. ^_^**


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